Icewind Dale, Year of the Cold Soul
by Solo Ranger
Summary: Hopefully a faithful and definitive version of the original game's main plot, only slightly re-imagined to keep things new and interesting. Reviews welcome.
1. Prologue: Heroes' Hearts

**i.**

_Eleasis, 1281 DR _

_Dawn_

The day dawned cold and bright over the north. The sun climbed into a perfectly blue sky, its light glittering across the frozen plains and turning the waters of Lac Dinneshere to liquid flame. It was as pleasant a morning as anyone in Icewind Dale could hope for so late in the year.

Jhonen of Easthaven stood on the lake's shore and gazed out across the calm, crystal waters, pondering the coming winter even as he enjoyed the sun's feeble warmth. He had risen early, roused from his sleep by more troubling dreams. Those dreams played themselves out in his mind again and again, but became no clearer in their meaning:

_A woman of soul-staggering beauty, her voice raised in mournful song... a jewelled sword forged of black steel... and a winged beast descending from a storm..._

As he thought of the woman, Jhonen's heart ached with both longing and fear. Her face was vivid in his memory: skin as pale as snow and hair the colour of the sea with eyes to match. She was otherworldly. Her song was equally enchanting. Jhonen could not understand the words, but its tone spoke of great loss and unending sadness. He shivered beneath his cloak and turned to leave.

As he did so, his eyes caught a glimpse of something metallic buried in the muddy shore. Curious, Jhonen knelt and cleared away some of the muck and frost to get a better look. A sword's hilt revealed itself. An image of the sword from his dreams swept through his thoughts, filling him with dread. Closer inspection calmed him somewhat, as this weapon was nowhere near as magnificent. Its grip and pommel were unadorned and partially warped, its four-foot blade sheathed in rust. To judge from its apparent age, Jhonen guessed that it was an heirloom from the early days of Ten Towns, probably having belonged to one of the frontiersmen who helped settle the region by battle and bloodshed. He drew the sword from the mud and rinsed it off in the shallows. He gave it a few half-hearted swings. It was heavy and clumsy in his unskilled hands. Jhonen was tempted to cast the sword back into Lac Dinneshere and allow it to remain lost for another hundred years. Instead, he tucked it under his arm to take home, not really sure what he intended to do with it.

As he made his way back to Easthaven, a sudden gust of wind blew off the lake and for a moment he was certain he could hear singing.

**ii.**

_12th Eleint, 1281 DR_

_(Day 1)_

_Early morning_

Accalia had done everything she could to save him. All she could do now was wait for him to die. She had never felt so helpless.

His wounds ran deeper than flesh and bone. A venom of such virulence it defied even magical healing was eating him away from within. Poison was a tool of the weak and the cowardly and none of the priests could do anything to alleviate the young man's suffering. It was a cruel end, without honour. This man would never know the peace of Warrior's Rest, realm of Tempus.

"Shadows!" The man had been babbling since they found him lying on the temple's outer steps during the night. His words were a dry rattle. "The cold draws near... the tree fades... soon..."

Accalia dabbed at the poor man's head with a damp cloth and tried to calm him with prayer. It would not be long now.

Outside the infirmary, two voices were raised in heated discussion.

"What you're proposing is a fool's errand, Hrothgar! Soon it will be winter and Easthaven can ill afford the loss of her militia." The last word was said with disdain.

True, Accalia thought. Come winter, the barbarian tribes were as likely to raid the village as they were to trade with it. The volunteer soldiers saved many lives each year.

The second man, Hrothgar, was less agitated when he spoke, but his voice was deeper and more commanding. "And Kuldahar can ill afford our disregard. Listen Everard, I cannot speak for the townsfolk, but I for one cannot stand by while are neighbours are in danger."

Also true. All the settlers of the north constantly relied on each other for survival. If neighbours abandoned neighbours, all was lost.

"_Potential _danger," Brother Everard stressed. "We know nothing of this man. Only that he carries the seal of the Archdruid."

"And that he's about to die, despite your efforts."

There was a short break in their argument.

When they resumed, Accalia tried to ignore them, focusing on her patient. His breathing came in short, shallow gasps.

"Please," he said. He turned to look at Accalia and she saw that the mad sheen had gone from his eyes. His speech was measured and calm. "I tried to fight. To be brave. But there were too many and I ran." He reached for her hand. Tears rolled down his pale cheeks. "I've never been in a fight before. I was so afraid. I tried to fight, but gods forgive me there were too many." His grip tightened, becoming like a vice. "There is a shadow in the mountains and it gathers evil to it. Such evil! Soon it will be ready to make war on its enemy." He was hysterical now. "A great war! A blood feud! None of us will survive! We will be swept away by tides of darkness! All hail Yx..."

The man convulsed violently, blood frothing from his mouth. His last words were a gargled mess.

Then he was still.

Accalia had seen death many times before. She had seen the aftermath of battles in which hundreds died. She had seen strong men die from their injuries, slow and painfully. But they had been warriors, men who had chosen to meet their destiny with sword and shield. This youth had probably been a farmer or an apprentice of some sort, not a soldier. Tempus taught that war was a force of nature, an undeniable fact of life. However, he cautioned against reckless warmongering, preying upon those who could not properly defend themselves. In so many ways, those responsible for this man's death had committed blasphemy in the eyes of Tempus.

Sympathy for the man was quickly replaced by hatred for his killers.

When Everard and Hrothgar entered the room, they found Accalia was still grasping the deceased's hand, a prayer of vengeance on her lips.

Eventually, she stood and fixed Hrothgar in her steely blue gaze.

"When do we leave?"

**iii.**

_Day 3_

_Late afternoon_

Daurun hated everything about Icewind Dale.

The people. The weather. The ale.

Especially the ale.

The dwarf sat alone in the crowded tavern, a half-empty flagon of Grisella's best before him. He glowered at the other patrons, brows furrowed and mouth twitching. He listened to pieces of their murmured conversations.

"... Worst weather in decades..."

"... Monsters spotted in the pass..."

"... A messenger from Kuldahar..."

"... Hrothgar's looking for volunteers..."

Daurun scoffed. Gossip. The same every year. Except maybe that last one. The dwarf decided not to ask, however. It was someone else's problem.

His was a familiar face in Easthaven, but the locals took care to avoid him if they could. Daurun had come north eleven years prior with a small fortune. He had followed rumours of the dale's untapped resources and it had been his hope to mine the slopes of Kelvin's Kairn for ore. His wealth dwindled as he scoured the mountain. He found nothing. Trapped in the north, Daurun was forced to settle in Easthaven and now made a humble living as a metalworker, making and repairing simple tools. For someone who had made their fortune as a master smith, Daurun found his fate torturous. He had once longed go home, but his grand failure had long since eroded all purpose from his life.

He took a reluctant sip from his flagon, grimacing as he always did. He wiped foam from his beard and heaved a sigh of resignation.

"Local ale's not _that _bad."

Daurun was not used to being approached and his surprise must have shown.

"Didn't mean to startle you, friend." The accent was thick.

The dwarf looked up to see a stranger towering above him. The man was not of Ten Towns, that much was obvious. His dark features reminded Daurun of men from the far south, and his silken clothes were ill-suited for the cold north. A medallion hung at his throat engraved with a gauntleted hand, palm forward. It was the symbol of Torm, a god almost unheard of in Icewind Dale.

"Nay startled so much as bothered, _friend,_" Daurun said, his scowl reasserting itself.

The stranger seemed unperturbed. He even smiled. Something about that smile put Daurun at ease. The dwarf decided he didn't like this man at all.

"I am Artain Serlance, knight and paladin of the Most Noble Order of the Radiant Heart."

"Impressive." Sarcasm.

Artain pressed on, " Just call me Art. Might I ask your name?"

Daurun sighed again before growling a reply. "Round here I be known as Dour. And right now I'm lord of the Most Sincere Order of Can't Be Arsed."

At this, Artain's smile faltered. The big man pulled up a chair and sat down opposite Daurun. "I had hoped a true son of Clan Stoneheart would be a bit more polite in his dealings."

Sudden anger mingled with shock, leaving Daurun in a stunned silence. "How?" was all he managed.

"Your ring. I've seen its markings before. In Mithral Hall."

Memories of his home flooded Daurun's thoughts as he ran his fingers over the ring's etched runes. Beautiful, sparkling Mithral Hall, its tunnels filled with the clamour of metal and the heat from a thousand forges. Renewed regret for having ever left on his failed venture stabbed through him. He took further measure of Artain. Humans were rarely permitted to enter Mithral Hall. Only important ambassadors and recognised heroes were welcome, but even they were restricted to the upper caverns. To have glimpsed the sigils and learned the name of Stoneheart, Altain must have visited the deep delves, a great honour bestowed upon only the worthiest of allies. Earning such trust from a dwarf was no easy task.

A hundred questions fought for attention in Daurun's mind, but all he asked was, "What dae ye want?"

The paladin's eyes glowed, even in the tavern's dim light. "I have need of your skills."

"Ye need a bucket fixed?"

"Not quite," Artain said. "My weapons, it seems, were not made to withstand the cold. My journey north has left my equipment a little the worse-for-wear. I can compensate you well for your time."

Daurun was almost tempted, but, "Quality metal be hard tae come by in these parts. I doubt I have the resources to help ye."

"I can supply my own material."

"Aye? And what material would that be?"

"A little something from Mithral Hall."

_No. It couldn't be. _

Artain stood. "You can find me at the Snowdrift Inn." He left.

Daurun downed the last of his ale, grimaced, and ordered another.

**i**v.

_Day 3_

_Evening_

Stepping into the Snowdrift Inn was like stepping into a lover's embrace: it warmed the heart as well as the body. A fire roared in the hearth, bathing the common room in soothing shades of orange and yellow. The smell of roasted meat and spiced vegetables wafted from the kitchen. There was a storm gathering as night fell, and Artain breathed easy knowing that he would ride it out in comfort.

Quimby, the red-faced and always jovial innkeeper, poked his head out from the kitchen to see who had arrived. "Ho there!" he cried, grinning. "If'n it ain't another of my favourite guests! Dinner'll be out soon, don't you worry. Lamb and 'taters, best in Easthaven, don't you worry! Sit, sit. Make yourself at home."

Artain returned the smile and nodded. Quimby ducked back into the kitchen, surprisingly quick for his ample size.

Crossing the room towards the hearth, Artain almost missed the figure reclining in one of the worn leather armchairs. It was the Snowdrift's only other patron and the paladin shuddered as he passed, but otherwise ignored the elf whose melancholy was a tangible force. The elf stared blankly into the fire, his face solemn and pale, long fingers pressed tightly against his temples. Completely unmoving.

Artain pulled off his boots and set them against the hearthstone to dry. The melting snow formed a little puddle on the floor, sparkling in the firelight. It made Artain think of the myriad pools and fountains of the temple district in Athkatla, where he had grown up in the service of Torm and eventually earned his knighthood. Those days were far gone. He had left Amn ten years ago to spread the word of the Radiant Heart, bringing hope to the hopeless and defending the helpless. He had never looked back, never thought twice about his choices. Mostly.

It was not his faith in the gods that sometimes faltered, but rather his faith in men. Justice was an elusive force across Faerun, often forgotten and rarely just. Men seemed all too willing to deny its existence. In wretched Westgate, they mocked his god even as unjust laws mocked their very humanity. Artain had left the crowded cities of the Inner Sea, the ruined kingdoms of the Western Heartlands, bustling Waterdeep and fledgling Silverymoon, left it all to find virgin territory, both physical and spiritual. And so it was that a knight of Torm came to Icewind Dale, and despaired, for Tempus and old superstitions had already claimed the dalesfolk.

One rumour, however, now kept Artain in Easthaven a little longer than he had planned. The villagers spoke often of Kuldahar since news of Hrothgar's expedition started circulating about town. They spoke of a great tree, and the Archdruid, and... a temple of Ilmater, fiercest ally of Torm and Tyr; together they formed the Triad. Artain intended to visit the temple and pay his respects, perhaps even establish a shrine to the Loyal Fury if he was granted permission. To this end he had volunteered for the expedition, and commissioned the services of a dwarf to mend his broken sword.

"This is the Year of the Cold Soul." The voice was a flat monotone, devoid of emotion.

Artain turned to regard the dark-haired elf, half-lost in shadow. The paladin said nothing, a knot of unease formed in his stomach.

"The weather is wrong," the elf continued without expression. "A silence has fallen over the Spine of the World. Nature holds her breath. This is the Year of the Cold Soul. Ill omens all." Grey eyes flickered up and made contact with Artain's own. Then, to the paladin's surprise, the elf laughed. "Corellon forgive me, I'm beginning to sound like my cousin! Not every storm is an angry god's wrath, not every monster serves a master. A storm is often just and storm and a monster is often just easy experience for adventurers. Forgive me my grim demeanour. I am Erevain Blacksheaf." He stood and offered his hand in greeting.

"I am Artain Serlance, knight and palad-"

"I know what you are," Erevain said tersely, glancing at Artain's amulet.

The paladin shrugged. "It's a pleasure to meet you, friend. Just call me Art."

Erevain's narrow face was stern once more, his eyes suddenly resolute. "You intend to join Hrothgar's expedition." It was not a question.

Artain answered anyway. "I do, yes."

The elf looked lost in his own thoughts and said nothing for a long moment. Then, "It is a doomed venture."

"How so?"

Grey eyes caught the firelight and flashed gold. "Because some storms truly are an angry god's wrath."

Artain reached out with his sixth sense, reading the elf's heart. Erevain was not evil, but had a great understanding and knowledge of evil. It had left its mark.

"This is the Year of the Cold Soul, and it will take brave souls to conquer it." Erevain was growing cold and distant again. "I wish you all the best, paladin. We will not meet again." He left without another word, leaving Artain alone to ponder.

The next morning, Erevain was gone.

Later in the day, Artain was visited by a grouchy dwarf with a bad hangover.


	2. First Interlude: Hrothgar

_Day 4 _

_Morning_

Hrothgar trudged across Easthaven, his burly frame bent against the swirling wind. The snow was up to his knees and before long his legs and back were aching from the effort. Arthritic joints burned with each step.

_Perhaps you are a fool,_ he told himself._ A damned old fool._ Most men his age spent their days telling tales to their grandchildren by the fireside, not organising a dangerous trek over stormy mountains. But then Hrothgar had never thought of himself as most men. Adventure was closer to him than any friends or family he had ever known. _Five decades of sword-swinging and dungeon crawling and here I am rushing off on the next grand quest._ The notion was tinged with a bit of self-reproach. _What are you trying to prove?_

He arrived at the emporium, marched up creaky wooden steps and entered. The store was dimly lit by dozens of scented candles, which combined to create a pungent stench that made Hrothgar's nose itch. Rows upon rows of shelves ran the length of the floor, sparsely stacked with all manner of trinkets, weapons and foodstuffs.

Snow melting in his beard and trickling beneath his furs, Hrothgar navigated the maze of shelves and made his way to the back of the store. "Pomab?" he called. There was no reply. He tried again. Nothing. He sighed. "I don't have time for your games, merchant! Show yourself!"

A man appeared from behind a shelf, gaunt, dressed in flowing orange robes decorated with silver tracery. His skin was dusky and his features sharp. "Ah, I see your typical barbarian charm has not failed you." The accent was thick and difficult to understand.

"I have neither the time nor the patience to deal with your heckling today, Pomab."

"Nor the intelligence, I'm sure," the merchant added.

Hrothgar ignored the bait. He reached into his cloak and produced a piece of parchment, thrusting it into Pomab's hands. "I have need of these supplies."

Pomab scanned the list with dark, narrowed eyes. "The handwriting looks like a goblin's scrawl, but I believe I have most of these items in stock. The caravan from Caer Dineval is running late, but I can accommodate the bulk of your request. No doubt these are for your little expedition." Then, dripping with sarcasm, "Oh how I wish I could join your filthy band of would-be heroes."

"The mountains are no place for a cold-blooded snake like you, Calishite."

This seemed to amuse Pomab immensely and his face cracked into a crooked grin. "You'd be surprised what you may find in the mountains, northerner. Cold-blooded or otherwise."

They worked out the final details of the trade with barely restrained animosity. As always, Hrothgar felt soiled when leaving the emporium. Pomab was a menace, but a necessary one. Despite his venomous nature, the foreigner's prices were fair and his wares were varied and of good quality. Nevertheless, Hrothgar would much prefer the store keep return to Calimshan and a local run the business. Pomab possessed a hunger that Hrothgar had seen before in other men; ruthless men. The darker side of ambition.

The old veteran returned to his house, a two-storey cabin that was positively lavish by the standards of Easthaven. Someone was waiting on his porch, a slim, stooped figure wrapped in a threadbare cloak. The visitor stood as Hrothgar approached and drew back his hood to reveal a familiar face.

"Jhonen," Hrothgar said warmly, grinning and throwing his arms wide to embrace the youngster.

Jhonen returned the greeting. "I hope I'm not interrupting," he said. "I know you have many preparations to make."

"Not at all, boy. Come inside away from the cold." Hrothgar led him inside and took his cloak. "Can I get you anything? Some Cormyran brandy to warm your belly?"

Jhonen declined. They settled by the hearth, where Hrothgar quickly stoked a roaring fire to life. The room was filled with exotic items from across Faerun and Jhonen never ceased to be amazed by the older man's collection. Of particular wonder was the stuffed head mounted above the fireplace: shaped like that of a bull, only much larger and covered with banded steel instead of flesh. Lifeless red eyes glared down at the two men as they spoke.

"What brings you to my humble abode then, boy?" asked Hrothgar.

Jhonen shifted uneasily. "I... I have come to join your expedition."

Hrothgar reclined into his chair and appraised the boy. _Soft and sickly like his mother_, he pondered, _but perhaps there is something of his father in him after all_. "It is not my place to turn away volunteers," said Hrothgar, "but I would like to know why you have made this choice."

"Because I am afraid."

Hrothgar raised one bushy grey eyebrow in question.

"All my life I have been afraid," Jhonen continued. "And now I am alone. I have lost all those I cared for and I am still afraid." His voice caught and he struggled to find the right words. Hrothgar waited patiently.

"I am tired of being afraid, Hrothgar," he said at last. "I wake each morning feeling empty and drained, like I am only half a man. My dreams..." he trailed off, then picked up a new thought. "If I stay in Easthaven any longer I risk madness, or worse."

"It will be a difficult journey," said Hrothgar. "And I cannot promise you my protection once we are in the Spine of the World."

"Nor would I ask for it. Not this time. They say my father was a brave man."

Hrothgar nodded. "Rhanen was a hero of Icewind Dale, like his father and grandfather before him."

Lapsing into a long silence, Jhonen considered those words before saying, "Then I will honour his memory as best I can. I hope to fear no longer."

Hrothgar leaned forward and fixed Jhonen with a penetrating stare. "Fair enough, boy, fair enough. But are you hoping to escape your fears or to conquer them?"

Jhonen did not answer.


	3. Chapter 1: The Muster of Easthaven

**i.**

_Day 4_

_Afternoon_

Daurun unwrapped the paladin's package with trembling hands. His heart was racing with excitement.

Two small ingots of pure mithral, together no larger than a scroll case.

He lifted them, feeling their considerable weight and examining them for imperfections. There were none. Daurun caught his reflection smiling in the metal's mirror-like surface. For the first time in years, he felt close to home.

_Too long._

He put the mithral down, reverently, and pulled the other wrapped bundle from his pack, the contents of which he spilled carelessly onto his work table. A broken sword, shattered into several pieces. It was an admirable enough weapon, Daurun noted, but had become brittle in the frozen north and had inevitably split down the centre of the blade. The hilt and cross guard were ornate, carved in the likeness of a gold dragon in flight.

The dwarf stroked his beard, thinking.

Working mithral and bonding it to inferior metal would be difficult with his limited tools and humble forge. But not impossible. Not to him.

He laid out his hammers and tongs, donned a thick leather apron and set a fire in the forge. He fanned the flames until they were roaring and white hot, then placed the mithral bars at their heart. The fire reacted to the metal's presence, drawing itself in to envelop the bars so that they vanished from sight. Daurun waited patiently, staring into the fire as if hypnotized, tongues of flame singing his beard. His mind wandered, traveling back through the years to his homeland and all the secrets of the forge he had once known. His lips started to move, their motion unconscious and natural, as he intoned ancient words of power and enchantment. He removed the mithral from the forge and it yielded its shape beneath his hammer. He worked until his muscles screamed and his fingers bled.

As he reforged the metal, so too was something inside him made whole again. Each fall of the hammer chipped away at the apathy that had crippled him for so long. Each bright spark of steel on steel was reflected in his soul as a forgotten vigour was rekindled. It was the same vigour that had led him north so many years ago, Daurun realised with a mixture of excitement and dread.

_Too long._

By dawn, he was finished.

**ii.**

_Day 5_

_Late Morning_

The paladin hoisted the sword into a defensive stance, then took a few practice swings, feeling its balance as it cut through the crisp morning air. "Good as new," Artain said.

"Better than new," Daurun corrected.

_True enough_, thought Artain. The weapon felt lighter and more natural in his grip, though it had lost nothing of its size or shape. The blade rippled and reflected the sun with each stroke like the crystal waters of Lac Dinneshere behind him. A near invisible pattern of runes had been carved along the sword's edge. "What are these symbols?"

"An ancient prayer to Clangeddin Silverbeard," said Daurun proudly. "An ally of Torm. The runes will lend your blows added strength in battle."

"Thank you." Artain said, though he felt they were inadequate words. He reached for the pouch hanging from his belt. "Your payment. As we agreed, two hund-"

The dwarf held up one stubby-fingered hand. "No payment necessary," he said.

Artain was uncertain. Thinking it might be a strange jest, he drew his money bag anyway. "I insist."

Daurun's heavy brows furrowed. "Ye insult me. I have made a gift of my skills. There is nay value fer such a thing."

"But why? I don't understand."

The dwarf's hard stare softened for a brief moment. "Tae repay ye in kind, lad. Fer bringing me a piece o' home." He turned to leave, paused, then said over his shoulder, "Ye can show yer gratitude when we reach the Spine o' the World by putting that blade tae good use."

"We?" Artain thought saw a slight gleam in the dwarf's grey eyes and could not help but smile.

"Aye," said Daurun, the faintest hint of a smile on his own face. He left.

The paladin was alone now on the banks of the lake, brandishing his reforged sword. He wondered if he would indeed make use of it on the road to Kuldahar. _This is the Year of the Cold Soul_, the elf's words drifted through his mind. _Nature holds her breath_. He glanced south at the Spine of the World mountains, vast clouds heaped over their jagged peaks, black and silent. He had come to Icewind Dale to spread the light of Torm, but that light seemed very faint in this harsh, rugged land.

_Ill omens all._

**iii.**

_Day 5_

_Evening_

The sermon was short and powerful, though few had gathered to hear it. The weather was fierce this evening, and many had wisely decided to stay at home. Nevertheless, Everard was in a foul mood over it.

"Lip service," he had grumbled earlier. "Their faith is challenged by poor weather."

Accalia ignored his rant. Everard was in a constant state of anger lately and there was little to be done about it.

When the half-dozen worshipers and the low-level initiates had departed, Accalia was left alone with him in the main hall, standing beneath the stone image of their god: giant and resplendent in his armour. Everard struggled down from the crude pulpit, slowed by his lame left leg, and limped over to Accalia, his face stern and haggard. She took a deep breath. This, she knew, was to be the final confrontation.

"Jerrod's Stone," was all Everard said. The words echoed about the empty hall. Accalia's gaze found the skein of pulsing yellow runes at the statue's feet. They warded the entrance to the temple's catacombs and kept the precious artifact therein safe.

"What of it?"

"It is a warning. A warning against the folly of needless sacrifice." Everard's face was grave, his words a growling whisper.

Accalia rolled her eyes, passing it off as disinterest when in truth she was suddenly nervous. "We have spoken of this before. I'm going Everard. It is my choice."

"Then let us speak of it one last time before you leave. I have cast the spells and read the omens." An expression of fear played across his blunt features so quickly Accalia almost missed it. "I tried to convince myself otherwise, but the truth can no longer be denied."

"The truth of what?"

"The truth of what awaits you in the Spine of the World."

"Wha-?"

"Allow me a few words more, Accalia," Everard interrupted sharply. "Are you so eager to rush off to Kuldahar to avenge the death of this one man?"

Accalia had never spoken of how deeply she had been affected by the messenger's untimely passing, yet Everard had seen through her motivations as clear as glass. "His murder was an affront to Tempus," she said.

"True, but your desire to run off and seek battle is an even greater affront."

Shocked, Accalia was on the verge of screaming at Everard, but the maimed priest raised a silencing hand and she gritted her teeth instead.

"There is no victory in sacrifice," he continued, his voice taking on a measured tone as if he were delivering another sermon. "Jerrod believed he would find deliverance in martyrdom, that in giving his life he was serving Tempus' will. His sacrifice cost him his soul."

Accalia knew the story well. Jerrod was a shaman of the Uthgardt, who had led his people to battle against the invader Arakon. In his defeat, Arakon had ripped open a portal to the Lower Planes and a legion of hell had spilled forth onto the battlefield. As his people were slaughtered around him, Jerrod glimpsed an avatar of Tempus watching from a distant ridge. Taking it as a sign, the shaman charged the portal alone, his blood and mortal soul fusing it shut. Everard preached that Tempus' appearance was a portent of victory for the Uthgardt and that Jerrod's sacrifice was a vain attempt at glory-mongering. Accalia was not so sure.

"I don't understand," she said at last. "Why do you preach this to me now?"

"Because I fear for your soul." Everard's face looked older than ever, grey and tired.

Accalia asked, "What awaits me in the Spine of the World, Everard?"

"Only death."

A short eternity went by.

"So be it."

Outside, the wind howled.

**iv.**

_Day 6_

_Dawn_

Jhonen stamped his feet and breathed into his gloves, desperate to keep the chill at bay. His grey woolen cloak was poor protection, but it was all he had. As a lowly dockhand at Easthaven's tiny port, he earned barely enough copper to keep himself fed let alone warm.

There was a buzz of activity around him as final preparations were made for the expedition. Men, shouting and joking about the adventure to come, were loading bundles of firewood and blankets onto the two small carts that had been commandeered for the trek. Each was to be drawn by a stout, shaggy-haired ox. Hrothgar was barking instructions, helping where he could. The old man looked every bit the hero this morning, dressed in scaled leather armour lined with fine white rabbit fur; a two-handed sword that was taller than Jhonen was strapped across his back.

Jhonen's hand went to his own weapon, the bent and rusted blade he had found earlier that tenday by the lakeshore. It was tucked into his belt and hidden beneath his cloak. He felt very foolish. _My father was the hero, not me_. Jhonen wanted to return to his shack, crawl into bed and hope no one noticed his cowardice. But then the horror of his dreams reared up in his mind - the pale serpent gliding through clouds as black as night, its jaws wide as it fell from the sky - and he found himself rooted to the spot. _Too afraid to go, too afraid to stay_. Jhonen felt trapped and doomed and helpless.

His bleak thoughts were broken by Hrothgar's booming voice.

"Come here, boy."

Jhonen went.

"You tie a better knot than most," Hrothgar said. "Make sure everything is safely secured to this cart." He tossed Jhonen a roll of hemp rope and trudged off to oversee the loading of the second cart.

There were others nearby who could have performed the same task, but Jhonen was grateful to be included. He silently thanked the old man, removed his gloves and set to work. He double checked every knot, tugging and tightening until his hands were raw. When Hrothgar returned, he gave only a slight nod of satisfaction, but it was more than enough to lift Jhonen's spirits.

By now, just about the entire village had turned up to see the expedition off. All told, there were over two score volunteers, fully half of Easthaven's able bodies. Most of them Jhonen knew, just local fishermen and craftsmen not unlike himself. He recognised the cleric Accalia, wearing vestments of red-dyed fur, and the dwarf they all called Dour, who had a workman's hammer hanging from his belt and a crudely made helm tucked under his arm. There were some strangers too, Jhonen noted. In particular a halfling woman who moved cheerfully through those gathered, largely ignored, and a tall, broad-shouldered man with the look of a southerner. The latter wore simple cotton clothes and only a dark blue cape around his shoulders for protection, yet he seemed unaffected by the cold as he loaded a heavy-looking bundle onto the second cart. A sword with an extravagantly crafted hilt and cross guard was sheathed at his side and Jhonen was unhappily reminded of the blade from his dreams.

A short while later, everything appeared to be in order. Hrothgar climbed one of the carts' luggage piles so that everyone could see him.

"Six days ago, a messenger came to us from Kuldahar," he shouted, "begging for our aid. Sadly, the journey cost him his life and he left us with many questions. I intend to find the answers." His gaze flickered briefly over Jhonen as he said, "It makes me proud that so many brave men and women will join me in this."

There was genuine warmth in the older man's tone, and Jhonen felt a surge of delight, squaring his shoulders and standing a little taller.

"In Icewind Dale, we do not abandon our neighbours," Hrothgar continued. "We stand together or we fall together. Kuldahar is not alone."

A few cheered. Most kept quiet.

The cleric Accalia stepped forward, her blond hair and pale skin almost white in the morning sunlight. "We call upon Tempus to bless us," she said and several of those gathered fell to their knees. "May he lend us strength in hardship, and victory in battle. _Vitar. Mor'tis. Khayalah._" Victory. Death. Glory.

_A strange choice of prayer_, Jhonen thought, though he was admittedly unfamiliar with the Tempuran faith. He worshiped Lathander, the god of his mother and father. Stranger still was Everard's absence from the crowd. Jhonen reasoned that a senior priest would be present to exalt such an undertaking, not a subordinate. He grew anxious thinking about what that might mean.

The moment had come and the volunteers said their final goodbyes to friends and family. There were few tears; the people of Ten Towns were harder than that. Having no family and no true friends, Jhonen said a weak farewell to Apsel the scrimshander, who wished him luck, and merely waved to any others he knew. He wondered if he would ever see Easthaven again. He wondered if he even cared.

Without fanfare, the oxen lurched into motion, keeping to the shores of Lac Dinneshere for a time before heading out onto the windswept tundra of the day.


End file.
